Behind us, Slade was already coming.
He leaned forward—silent, focused—and his horse leapt, hooves barely clearing the edge.
It landed rough. Slade grunted but stayed up. Rings spun around him like a shield, ready for the wolves still chasing.
Only three now. The others had dropped off—or bled out.
The third wolf hit the ravine’s edge and paused, pacing. It wouldn’t jump. Not unless forced.
The fourth wasn’t so cautious. It lunged—and misjudged the distance.
It crashed into the far wall, scrabbled for purchase, then fell with a sickening crunch into the rocks below.
Caelen exhaled. “That’s one way to deal with it.” The last wolf howled from the ledge. Watching. Waiting. But it didn’t jump.
“You godsdamn crazy sonofabitch,” I panted, still clutching his shoulder. My breath came in ragged gasps, heart hammering like a war drum. “I swear, if we’d died, I’d have haunted you.”
Caelen didn’t even look back—just kept the mare moving at a slower pace now, the terrain less brutal but no less shadowed.
“I had the best riding tutors in the world,” he muttered between breaths. “I started when I was three. Dressage, cross-country, obstacle training. Iknowhow to ride.”
He paused. Swallowed.
“…Still didn’t think that would work.”
I huffed a laugh. “Neither did your damn horse.”
Behind us, Slade groaned. “Next time, warn me before we do something suicidal.”
“You’re welcome,” Caelen snapped.
We rode in silence for a beat—just the rustle of leaves, the laboured breathing of our horses, and the echo of that last wolf’s howl, still ringing faintly in the distance.
“Think they’ll follow?” I asked.
“Not tonight,” Slade said, voice low. “Not after that fall.”
Still, none of us truly relaxed.
We couldn’t.
Not yet.
**
We rode for hours, the adrenaline long since burned off, replaced by grit and bone-deep exhaustion. At the top of a rise, we finally slowed—three shadows on a ridge overlooking the valley below.
Velmere.
It sprawled beneath us in fractured motion—chaotic, loud, alive. People swarmed the docks, hauling crates and climbing onto boats. Children cried. Soldiers shouted. From here, it looked less like an evacuation and more like an exodus.
“Is that—” Caelen began, stepping forward.
I followed his gaze.
And there—clearly, unmistakably—was an armada. Dozens of sleek sailboats lined the harbour, their sails marked with the black-gold crest of Shadowmere. Royal. Fast. Meant for war.
And standing right in the heart of it, at the edge of the wharf—
